


don't be careful, don't be clever

by pdameron



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Fluff, M/M, i'm really struggling with the tags here, mostly rated M for Silver's potty mouth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-13 10:51:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14747454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pdameron/pseuds/pdameron
Summary: “What the fuck?” Silver says, because what else does one say when met with atalking clock?A deafening roar comes from behind him. Silver, in his haste to turn around, trips over his peg and falls on his ass next to the clock.“WHAT THE FUCK?” he shouts this time, because a talking clock is one thing, but he sure as shit didn’t sign up for a fanged, snarling beast when he stumbled into this castle.---in which Silver is the very reluctant Belle to Flint's even more reluctant Beast.





	1. in which john silver has a most unusual encounter

**Author's Note:**

> listen sometimes you just gotta write some fairytale nonsense you know
> 
> huge thank you to [kourtney](https://stiilesstilinski.tumblr.com) for reading and encouraging me while writing this, and to [anna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gammadolphin/pseuds/gammadolphin/works) for being my beta as always and telling me when my grammar gets horrific.
> 
> title as ever taken from a musical, this time from "ever after" from into the woods.

_Should have just taken the fucking crutch,_ Silver thinks as he ducks behind a tree, panting and trying not to make any noise as his leg throbs. Damn his bloody pride, his insistent refusal to be seen as lesser in any way, even in front of low lives like Parrish and his goons. He takes a deep, steadying breath, bracing himself before darting back out from his hiding spot, moving further away from the road and his pursuers.

He wanders aimlessly through the wilderness for a time, each step bringing new agony as he slips and stumbles in the mud, as the rain makes his hair stick to his forehead. He stops though, rather abruptly.

It seems that from one moment to the next a huge, iron-wrought gate has appeared out of thin air.

Well, not thin air, per se.

Silver most like had simply been too distracted by his leg to notice as he approached it. Pain, after all, is most adept at dulling one’s senses.

He peers through the bars, just barely making out a large shadow in the near distance. A bolt of lightning illuminates the shape, and he realizes with sharp relief that it is in fact a castle. It seems rather foreboding, but Silver reasons with himself as he pushes the rusted gate open that he doesn’t have much of a choice; it’s either an ominous castle or the business end of Parrish’s pistol.

He closes the gate cautiously behind him, before slowly making his way through the grounds. He can hardly see five feet in front of him with how heavily the rain is coming down, but he can _hear_ the sound of horses, and that of men shouting as they draw near.

He moves behind a large hedge, praying he can’t be seen from the gate. He can just barely make out what Parrish and his men are saying:

“The rains washed away the trail,” one calls, and Silver could fall to his knees and weep in thanks.

“Think he went in there?” another, more intuitive goon responds, and Silver rethinks his brief celebration.

“If he did, he’s a fool,” Parrish shouts. “Let’s press on. If he _did_ venture beyond these gates, the curse will take him before long.”

They gallop away swiftly, hooves splashing in the mud. Silver would be concerned about this supposed curse if he were a more foolish sort of man, but as there are no such thing as curses, he’s instead just grateful for the fanciful, fearful minds of country folk.

He hurries the rest of the way through the grounds, not bothering to take in the hedges, shrubs, statues, or fountains. There’ll be time for sightseeing on the way out, when he doesn’t feel like what’s left of his leg is aflame. Finally, _finally_ , he reaches the large front doors and pushes them open without a moment’s hesitation, eager to get out of the freezing downpour.

Given the state of disrepair the foyer is in, he would wager the castle is abandoned. Still, he doesn’t care to test this theory; he doesn’t call out a greeting, announce his presence in any way. Better to ask forgiveness than beg permission, he’s always thought.

He goes through the nearest set of doors, pleased to find a drawing room of sorts behind them. The room is in disarray: there’s a thin layer of dust on nearly every surface, and what little furniture there is has been overturned, the upholstery torn. It’s not the most reassuring of sights, but Silver is fairly desperate, so he goes to the nearest chair and rights it, groaning at the pressure he has to put on his leg as he does so.

There are several splintering holes in the back, the stuffing sticking out haphazardly, and it’s missing an armrest, but as Silver leans back against it, finally taking the weight off his aching leg, he finds that it doesn’t matter in the least. He sinks down against the ripped cushions, letting out a sigh as he closes his eyes. It’s so much warmer inside these walls, where the wind and sheets of icy rain can’t reach him. It gets warmer and warmer, almost as if -

Silver opens his eyes to see a roaring fire where there certainly wasn’t one before.

He sits up, looking around for any sign of the person who lit the fire. He hadn’t heard _anything_. There’s no one else in the room. The only thing he notices is a small carriage clock just next to the fireplace, innocuous and yet completely out of place.

He gets up, walking over and picking up the clock. It’s finely made, no doubt worth a pretty penny. He doesn’t hesitate to open his satchel, fully prepared to take the clock with him and sell it once he’s rested and the rain has stopped.

...And once Parrish has stopped looking for him.

Except, when he goes to tuck the clock away, he hears someone shout.

“Oi!”

Silver drops the clock in his surprise, whipping around unsteadily to look for the source of the noise. There’s more shouting as the clock clangs against the floor, and Silver notices with a start that it’s coming _from the clock_.

“Ow! What the hell, kid? First you try and steal us, then you go and drop us on the floor? What’s the matter with you?”

“What the fuck?” Silver says, because what else does one say when met with a _talking fucking clock?_

He starts to crouch and look closer, when a deafening roar comes from behind him. Silver, in his haste to turn around trips over his fucking peg and falls on his ass next to the clock.

 _“WHAT THE FUCK?”_ he shouts this time, because a talking clock is one thing, but he sure as shit didn’t sign up for a fanged, snarling beast when he stumbled into the castle.

“Who are you?” the beast thunders, and - oh, of course it can talk. Why shouldn’t it?

“Who am _I?_ Are you _fucking_ kidding me? Who are _you?_ What the _fuck_ is going on?”

The beast grabs him by the front of his shirt, lifting him off the ground with laughable ease. This close, the light from the fire is enough for Silver to make out the creature’s features: its fur, matted and shaggy, is a deep auburn, shining copper in the firelight; its face, at first glance, seems almost lion-like, but there’s something almost like a wolf in the way it snarls, like a fox in the sharpness of its gaze; and its eyes - its eyes are a striking green, light and intense and -

“You trespass in my home, attempt to kidnap my butler, and you think you have the right to any information? Any questions at all?”

“I’m sorry,” Silver says, trying to mask the fear gripping his chest. “It’s just that I’ve never encountered a giant talking beast or a clock butler before. I’m a bit thrown.”

The beast snarls in his face, snapping his teeth, before (in a twist of irony that Silver should have seen coming) he throws him to the ground. Silver scampers as far as he can from the creature, scooting back on his hands without breaking eye contact. His back hits an overturned table, and he has to hold in a groan when he realizes he’s essentially backed himself into a corner. He fumbles at his belt for his dagger, drawing and pointing it in the beast’s direction. He doesn’t know what good it will do, but surely even monsters bleed.

“Stay back!”

The beast looks almost amused by his attempt to defend himself, and he takes a menacing step toward him.

It is then that, inexplicably, the clock waddles forward, standing between Silver and the monster and putting its makeshift arms on its - waist? Middle? Do clocks have waists? “Now, sir, let’s all just calm down, yeah? No need to get violent.”

To Silver’s utter amazement, the beast stops moving, instead directing his ire at the clock.

“ _He_ drew on _me_ , Gates,” the creature says, sounding irritated. Better than murderous, Silver supposes.

“Yeah, after you chucked him across the room. You can’t blame the boy, can you?”

Silver bristles at being called ‘boy’ (he’s nearly four and twenty, thank you very much), but elects to stay silent. Best not antagonize his only ally.

“To be fair, sir, anyone’s first instinct would be to draw their weapon when faced with a beast snarling in their face. I’m amazed it took him as long as it did,” another, younger voice says, and Silver watches with undisguised amazement as a candlestick with what seems to be a mustache hops over to stand next to Gates the clock and join the conversation.

“I think it was probably the shock,” the coat rack in the corner chimes in. Silver thinks he might actually start screaming if any more pieces of furniture start to talk.

“Maybe he’s just stupid,” the fireplace grumbles in a more feminine, growling voice.

Screaming it is.

“Please don’t yell,” a feather duster says in a lilting voice, scooting its way over to him. Oh, good, the feather duster is a girl as well. She even has a little face (they all do, really, but this is the closest he’s been to one of them), with a mole on her “cheek”, just like all the rich women in the city. “Flint’s hearing is awfully sharp, and it’ll just make him even grouchier if you do.”

“Who the fuck is Flint?”

“ _I’m_ Flint, you blundering fool,” the beast yells, turning away from his muttered conversation with Gates the butler nee clock. “The master of this castle, on whose property you are trespassing, thief.”

“What makes you think I’m a thief?” Gates the clock clears his throat pointedly, but Silver shakes his head. “That could have been a one-off. My first misstep in a short life of crime.”

“Those riders out on the trail, they’re after you, aren’t they? We saw you hide from them,” the coat rack says, moving closer until it towers over Silver where he’s still sitting.

“Er - yes,” Silver says, standing up to get a better look at the coat rack. Why is it so tall? Silver’s not sure he could even reach up to hang his jacket on it if he tried. He looks around to see more knick knacks and furniture moving into the room: a porcelain teapot; a quill; a fencing foil; a hammer…and finds that he’s never been so curious in all his inquisitive life.

An idea strikes him, then.

“How about we make a deal, Flint?” Silver asks, turning back to the master of the house. He looks less and less scary the longer Silver looks at him, becoming just another curiosity in this enchanted castle rather than a monstrous beast.

The look Flint gives him is decidedly unimpressed. It’s amazing how expressive his animalistic face is, really. “Why the fuck would you think you’re in a position to bargain?”

“Well, just hear me out. You let me stay here, lay low for a week or so, until that business with those men out there blows over, and in return I keep your secret, and don’t send a horde of fearful townspeople after you.”

Flint barks out what might be a laugh at that. “Or maybe I’ll just kill you where you stand and save myself the trouble of having you as a house guest.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Silver says, readjusting his grip on his dagger. He’s never been the most gifted swordsman, but he knows where to hit someone where it hurts, and he’s always been quick on his feet. Uh, foot. “I’m an awfully slippery fellow, I’ve been told. Who’s to say I wouldn’t get away and steal one of those horses I saw on my way in?”

“You _little_ \- ”

“We accept your terms!” Gates interrupts Flint, and both Silver and the beast freeze, staring at the clock in confusion.

“We _what?_ ”

“Really?” Silver asks, baffled.

“Yes, we’d be delighted to have you. Jack, show Mr..."

"Oh, uh - Silver. John Silver."

"Jack, show Mr. Silver to his quarters, won’t you?” Gates says, and the candlestick makes his way toward the door, gesturing with one of his candles for Silver to follow. Gates rounds on Flint before they’re even out of the room, speaking swiftly and quietly. “Need I remind you that our time is running out? That boy might be the last and best chance we have - ”

“ _That_ kid? That wet poodle? You seriously think that _little shit_ is going to - ”

The rest of Flint’s tirade is muffled when the coat rack hastily shuts the door behind them, and Silver is left to pout at having his attempts at eavesdropping cut off.

The candlestick, Jack, begins to lead Silver to what he assumes will more or less be a cell for the next few weeks, chattering incessantly and trying to draw attention away from the sounds of Flint’s angry roars and Gates’ yells. It would be irritating, just how much Jack is talking, if Silver weren’t still completely in awe at the sight of a _talking candlestick_.

Silver swallows back a long-suffering groan when he realizes just how many staircases he’ll need to navigate to get there, but the teapot (the _talking_ teapot), who is apparently French, and maybe a woman, must see something on his face from where she waits off to one side.

“Apologies, Monsieur Silver. The castle is not the easiest to navigate for a man with an injury.”

Injury, she says. Not disability.

Before his meeting with Parrish, he’d taken a leather boot and hammered it to his prosthetic leg, folding the cuffs over the nailheads and making sure the bottom of the peg was firmly attached to the insole. Once he’d draped his pants over the top of the peg, he simply became a man with a limp, not an invalid. He’s infinitely grateful that these magical little creatures can’t tell that his prosthetic isn’t his actual leg: no reason for their monstrous master to know his weaknesses.

“An injury, you say?” Gates says, waddling over to Silver’s side. Silver steps away before he can poke at his leg with his tiny, golden arms. “What happened, lad?”

“My horse threw me,” Silver lies easily. “He was always skittish, and the lightning frightened him.”

“Ah, how fickle a thing fear is, wouldn’t you agree? Why, I remember when I was a lad - ”

“A lad?” Silver interrupts Jack, suddenly curious and eager to distract himself as he slowly makes his way up the stairs. “You mean you weren’t always a candlestick?”

“ _Candelabra_ , Mister Silver,” Jack admonishes, because apparently there’s a difference between a candlestick and a _posh_ candlestick. He doesn’t elaborate further. Instead, he points to the staircase on the left, which leads to the west wing. Silver is apparently forbidden from entering the west wing, as those are “the master’s” private quarters.

Well, fair enough, Silver supposes. He won’t be here very long, if he has his way, and even candlesticks - _candelabras_ \- are entitled to their secrets. He certainly has enough of his own.

When they finally reach Silver’s room, his stump is in agony, and he’s begun to suspect that the moisture collecting in his peg is more than just sweat or rainwater. If he ever sees his doctor again, the man will surely have his head for being so careless with his own wellbeing.

Jack jumps up and lands on the door handle, letting his weight lower the latch and open the door to Silver’s room, which -

Is nothing at all like he expects.

It’s easily the most lavish, ornate bedroom he’s ever seen, let alone slept in. There’s a huge four poster bed with a canopy (a canopy!) and more blankets and quilts laid out on it than Silver’s collectively owned throughout his entire miserable life. He’d been about to make off with Gates, earlier, but he’s honestly just as likely to try and steal one of those blankets at this point. There’s a wardrobe, a vanity, a bookshelf, and a small writing desk, each painted white with delicate gold detailing along the finishings.

Silver limps his way over to the window, pulling back a set of curtains to see that the rain has finally stopped, the moon illuminating his view of the courtyard. It might have been beautiful, once, but the hedges have gone untended, the gardens are overrun with weeds and thorny bushes, and the fountains are bone dry.

Speaking of dry -

“I don’t suppose you have any clothes I might borrow? Only these are covered in mud.” Now that Silver’s away from the fireplace (which, he now realizes, must have _lit itself,_ good lord), he’s absolutely freezing in these wet clothes.

“Of course, of course,” Jack says, gesturing to the wardrobe.

Silver goes to open it, but pauses when he reaches for the door. “Er - nice to meet you?”

Jack lets out a snort most unbecoming for such a posh candlestick. “I’m afraid the armoire is nothing more than wood.”

“Oh,” Silver mumbles, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. He opens the _armoire_ , surprised to see a row of shirts and pants, probably intended for a man slightly taller than him. “Who do these belong to?”

“Someone who doesn’t need them anymore,” Jack says cryptically, and Silver just barely avoids rolling his eyes and insulting his host. Or, his host’s candelabra. “I’ll have some hot water brought up for you, Mister Silver. I’m sure you’d like to clean up some before you retire for the night.”

Silver nods his thanks, and Jack leaves, hopping cheerfully out of the room. Silver’s fairly certain he closes the door behind him by headbutting it.

The hot water is brought by way of sentient buckets, it would seem, though they don’t respond to Silver’s polite greeting. There’s a wooden tub just in the corner, and the buckets empty themselves quickly before leaving him alone. There is nothing Silver wants more than to sink his aching muscles into the steaming water, but he has to take some precautions first.

Silver goes to the window and draws the curtains, then turns to the rest of the room, hands on his hips. He proceeds to approach every single item in the room, addressing them and feeling like a fucking twat when not one responds to his greetings. Only once he’s certain that he’s truly alone does he move to the bath and painstakingly remove his prosthetic. There isn’t too much blood, he’s glad to see, but enough that his doctor would probably throw something at him.

The bath is luxurious, the soaps and oils lush, and Silver spends far too long simply soaking in the warm water. His stump has finally stopped bleeding, and though the pain is not gone, it’s slightly more tolerable. Eventually, the water goes lukewarm, and he retrieves what he thinks is a nightshirt from the wardrobe. He’s not sure; he hasn’t worn anything other than breeches to bed since he was a boy, and his childhood pajamas were never as fine as this.

After hesitating a moment, he grabs the least expensive looking shirt in the wardrobe, ripping off the sleeves and carefully wrapping his freshly clean stump with them, up to his mid-thigh. Then, he takes what’s left of the shirt and dips it in the water, doing his best to clean the prosthetic and wipe away the mud and dirt.

He lays the damned peg, boot and all, out on the bed next to him, pulling the canopy closed and then curling under the blankets. Hopefully, the servants - furniture? Accessories? - will be polite enough not to peek behind the closed curtains of the bed if they come to find him in the morning.

Silver will most likely be sequestered in this room for the remainder of his stay. There are worse prisons, he knows: he’s seen some of them for himself.

A cage he may be in, but at least it’s a gilded one.


	2. in which silver befriends a great many magical creatures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> several things happen in this chapter but most importantly: madi

Silver is slow to wake, the dappled sunlight shining over his face through the canopy and throb of his leg not enough to detract from how incredibly comfortable he is. He’s certain he’s never been so cozy in his life, and instead of opening his eyes and rising, he turns on his good side, buries his face in his soft pillow and burrows further under the mountain of blankets. 

He gets perhaps another ten minutes to laze about before he hears the door open and then the tinkling of porcelain rapping across the wood floor.

“Good morning, Monsieur Silver!” Max the teapot calls out, irritatingly chipper at this early hour. “I’ve come to fetch you for breakfast. Shall we - ”

He sees, suddenly, her spout poking through the curtains of his bed, and he cuts her off, pulling the canopy more firmly shut and keeping her out. 

“Wait! Don’t come in here. I - uh - I sleep in the nude.”

Max lets out an amused scoff. “It wouldn’t be anything I haven’t seen before, Monsieur, but I do hope you haven’t scandalized Madi too badly,” she replies breezily, and Silver can hear her moving back to the door. “I’ll leave you to dress yourself. Breakfast will be held in the main hall in fifteen minutes, so do be prompt.”

The door swings shut behind her, leaving Silver to ask the empty room: “Who the fuck is Madi?”

“That would be me.”

The accented voice seems to be coming from the bedside table, startling Silver near out of his skin. 

He whips open the canopy, and sure enough there’s a hairbrush of dark mahogany giving him an awfully self-satisfied look. “Have you been here this whole time? Even while I was bathing?” 

“Do not concern yourself over my virtue,” she replies magnanimously. “The view was no hardship for me.”

He scowls, feeling his cheeks go hot at the insinuation. 

“I was more concerned about you seeing the leg,” he says, ignoring her vaguely condescending flirting.

“Does it make you feel insecure, to be seen without your prosthetic?”

Well, he certainly hadn’t expected to be psychoanalyzed by a brush when he woke this morning. 

“It doesn’t matter how it makes me  _ feel _ ,” he snaps churlishly. “What matters is how it makes me  _ look _ . And if your master were to know about this, know how helpless I would be were I to try and escape and he gave chase… ”

The brush hops closer to him, until her carved face is mere centimeters from his own. “Before I address your concerns, let me make one thing clear to you, John Silver. I am no man’s servant.”

He blinks, taken aback. “Oh. Sorry, I just assumed. Everyone else calls him master.”

“Flint is master of this house, yes, but he is not  _ my _ master,” she says solemnly. He shifts nervously under her intense stare. Strange how she doesn’t technically have eyes, and yet he can still feel the weight of her gaze upon him. “In regard to your leg, you need not worry. Your secret will be safe with me. Though - if I may, you seem to be in need of a doctor, and we actually do have a fairly capable - ”

“I’m fine,” he interrupts. 

He hesitates a moment before whipping the nightshirt off, leaving him in just his breeches; Madi’s already seen all he has to offer, after all. He gets up and hops to the wardrobe. He grabs the nearest clothes and goes back to the bed, sitting down as he pulls the shirt, pants and sock on. The shirt, a cool grey, is slightly too large for him, and the pants are a few centimeters too long, but they’re far finer than the clothes he’d been wearing yesterday.

He rolls up the pants, and then picks up his peg, preparing to put the prosthetic back on. It’s painful enough on a good day, but he knows, even without taking off his makeshift bandages, that it’ll be excruciating on this particular morning. The skin above where he’s wrapped his stump is a bright, agitated red. He squeezes his eyes shut and more or less shoves himself into the peg, biting back a shout as the pain shoots up what’s left of his leg all the way to his hip. 

When he finally opens his eyes, he has to blink away the tears that have sprung to his eyes. Madi, when he glances her way, somehow manages to look both unimpressed and concerned at the same time.

“You’re a stubborn fool, John Silver,” she says, and he laughs. 

“We’ve only just met, and already you know me so well, Madi!” 

Jack swings his way into the room then, balancing on the door’s handle precariously. “All right, Mr. Silver, off you go! Don’t want to keep Flint waiting, do you?”

He nods, bracing himself for the first, agonizing step, before pausing. “Wait - I’m eating breakfast with  _ Flint? _ ”

Jack, who had already hopped off the door and headed down the hall as Silver prepared to leave, stops in his tracks. “It would be rude for him not to host you. You  _ are _ his guest, after all.”

Silver frowns, suddenly not hungry in the slightest. He could swear he hears soft, musical laughter coming from behind him, but when he turns to look at Madi she’s stone-faced. 

“Good luck, Mr. Silver,” she calls, and he resists the urge to stick his tongue out at her.

Walking to the dining room is, quite frankly, agony. The real trick, he’s learned, is to stay on the peg as long as possible, until his body grows accustomed to this new level of pain. The journey to breakfast isn’t nearly long enough for him to get used to it. He’s sweating by the time he reaches the table, and both his legs are trembling slightly. He all but collapses into his chair, grateful that Flint hasn’t arrived yet.

Many of the objects from yesterday are there, however, and he doesn’t miss the suspicious and curious looks thrown his way. 

“That injury still bothering you, then?” the coat rack asks, and Silver shrugs. 

“I don’t know how much experience you’ve had with horses,  given that coat racks are generally indoor items, but they’re awfully heavy. I suppose I’m lucky it’s not broken,” he lies easily. 

The coat rack rolls his eyes. “I’ve plenty of experience with horses, thanks very much.”

“So you weren’t always a coat rack, then? Or did you just hop and scoot your way out to the stables?”

“Stop trying to interrogate my staff,” comes a voice from the other end of the table, and Silver whips his head around to see Flint already seated. How had he managed to move so silently, given how bloody huge he is? It’s unsettling, is what it is.

Still, Silver’s not about to let the beast see him sweat, nervous though he might be. “How is expressing simple curiosity an interrogation? I have nothing but questions about this strange place. Does that make my intentions nefarious, somehow?”

Flint glares at him, his green eyes cutting and shrewd. “Need I remind you that you were given refuge here only after threatening our exposure to the outside world?”

Silver shrugs. “Well, needs must.”

Flint just grunts at that. 

Silver takes this reticence as an opportunity to better look at his monstrous host; the light streaming in from the open (if cracked) windows makes for much better observing than the low fire from last night. His white shirt is torn in several places, and his pants are both too tight and too short. On his shoulders he wears a tailored leather coat, Spanish in style, tapered at the waist. His face is just as odd and animalistic as it was last night, though Silver now notices the horns just above his brow, curled like some sort of wild goat’s. 

It must be lonely, Silver thinks, to be the only creature in this whole, wretched place with a pulse. 

As Flint realizes that he’s being watched, he first looks embarrassed, then disgruntled, then offended, and then he finally settles on irritation, which seems to be his default. Silver’s once again amazed at how expressive his unusual face is, how clearly he can tell what the beast is conveying with his looks.

They sit in uncomfortable silence, Flint unwilling to continue the conversation and Silver too nervous about getting his head bitten off to contribute. They’re saved from their own social ineptitudes by Max rolling out on a dining cart, steaming from her spout and sitting next to a plate filled with fruit. Another cart rolls in from the kitchen, and Silver is distracted from his concerns about Flint at the sight of eggs, biscuits, and meat on the trays. 

How long has it been since Silver’s had a meal that wasn’t stale bread and cheese? He piles food onto his plate, thanking Max and the unseen cook profusely as he digs in. It’s only when all his eggs and fruit are gone that he realizes  _ he _ is now being watched.

Flint is staring at him, bemused, his fork halfway to his mouth.

“What?” Silver asks, mouth full of egg.

Flint just shakes his head, taking a dainty bite of mango. It would be almost comical, if Silver weren’t convinced he’s being judged right now. 

“And they call me a beast,” Flint says once he’s swallowed, and Gates the clock lets out a loud guffaw before slapping his hands over his mouth, as if the laugh had been startled out of him. The coat rack, too, is snickering, and Max looks pleasantly surprised by Flint’s remark.

He feels a rush of defensiveness, hot and irrational. It’s silly to be insecure over something as trivial as his eating habits, but - it’s not like he ever had anyone to teach him the  _ right _ way to eat, or how to behave when one eats in a castle. Most days growing up he was lucky if he even  _ had _ anything to eat; manners were irrelevant. 

“Forgive me,  _ Lord _ Flint. Us mere mortals don’t often find ourselves faced with such a banquet of delicious food. We must take what we can while it’s still available to us.” 

To think, he’d actually felt sorry for Flint before, for his lot in life. Clearly, he’s just another privileged rich snob, just with added fangs.

Flint looks at him for a long while, after his snide reply. When he does respond, it’s not at all what Silver expects. “Where are you from?”

He supposes it’s meant to be a question, but it sounds more like a demand than anything else.

“Nowhere, really,” he says, looking down at his plate. He doesn’t think he’s ever had a strawberry before; upon taking a bite, he finds that they are, indeed, delightful. 

“No one’s from nowhere,” Flint says, still staring at Silver with those bright, intelligent eyes.

“Where are  _ you _ from?” Silver prompts, because he is nothing if not willing to deflect. 

Flint narrows his eyes, taking another bite without looking away. It’s a standoff, it would seem. “I asked you first.”

“Yes, but what is the home of an unassuming, lowly man when there is the question of where a lordly, otherworldly creature hails from?” 

Flint, inexplicably, throws his hands in the air in frustration, standing abruptly and turning to Gates. “I’m trying to be civil, and what do I get in return? Glibness! Disrespect! Cheek! This is a pointless exercise.”

He storms from the room, leaving Silver alone and confused at the table. He turns to Max. “I’m sorry,  _ that _ was civility? Really, where  _ is _ he from?”

Silver’s spent most of his adult life either on the street or slumming in filthy, seedy establishments, and even he knows that wasn’t anywhere near what proper people would call civil.

“Well, it was civil for Flint. More than he’s been in some time.”

“Huh,” is all Silver can think to say to that.

Jack offers to give Silver a tour of the grounds after breakfast. While it is tempting to explore the castle, his leg is still throbbing, so Silver opts to stay in one place, going back to that drawing room from the night before and taking a seat there. 

He tries to start a conversation with the fireplace, who Jack calls Anne, but all he gets is a grunt for his troubles. He thinks he’ll have to just sit in silence until the pain dulls, but before long the coat rack comes in, most likely so Silver doesn’t irritate Anne and get himself burnt. 

“What’s your name?” Silver asks, because he can’t just keep calling him the Coat Rack in his head.

“Billy,” he responds, and Silver can’t help the snort he lets out at that.

Billy crosses his longer pegs as if they were arms, and glares at Silver. “What’s so funny about that?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just - it’s such an ordinary name.”

“Oh, like John is so exotic.”

“I’m not a magical coat rack!” Silver objects, still laughing. Billy starts to leave, clearly irritated, but Silver doesn’t want to be left alone with only the angry fireplace for company. “Wait! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you. This is all so strange to me, is all.”

Billy lets out a put-upon sigh before turning back to Silver, seemingly resigned to his fate as babysitter. 

And, well, Silver only really has one method when it comes to getting people to like him, flesh or not.

“You know, Billy, you remind me of a man I once met. He was, believe it or not, hunting for the egg of a dragon. I, of course, found this ridiculous at the time, but now, having met you and your master, I think I might owe him an apology, should our paths ever cross again. His name was Percival, this man, and he was severely wounded…”

 

 

*****

 

 

Silver spends the next several days maintaining a pattern: two or three somewhat disastrous meals with Flint, afternoon spent chatting with Billy or whomever else cares to join them, and then an evening trying to get Madi to gossip about her fellow castle-mates while they’re alone in his room.

She won’t give him any gossip, but she does laugh fairly often, so Silver thinks he’s winning this game anyway.

He’s met most of the castle’s inhabitants at this point: De Groot, a grumpy, dented compass; Muldoon, an inquisitive, friendly hammer; Featherstone, a mild-mannered, easily flustered quill who tends to trail after Idelle, the feather duster; Joji, the ever-stoic fencing foil… 

He likes them all, he’s found, but he most enjoys spending time with Madi and Max. Madi, because she simply does not put up with his bullshit, but seems to like him anyway for reasons beyond his understanding.

Max because he sees in her a kindred spirit. He’d noticed, early on, a pair of golden snakes that had been delicately painted along her lid, and it had been then that he’d begun to suspect they were more alike than she would care to admit. From what he’s gathered from Jack (who seems to  _ like _ Max, but not entirely trust her) it’s taken a long while for her to cement the loyalties she’s found here in the castle.

On the fifth day - and after the third time Flint storms out on him, during lunch this time - Silver asks if he can watch Max and her team prepare dinner, because, well… _ magic. _

She lets him, albeit reluctantly, poking at him with her spout until he’s sitting on a counter in the corner. He thinks she’s just glad  _ someone _ appreciates the hard work they all do: he’s never been so well-fed in his life, and he’s incredibly vocal in his gratitude for it.

He watches dozens of spoons and forks and knives float around the room, and has a thought. 

“Why don’t any of those utensils talk? Are they just particularly quiet, like Joji, or are they not as sentient as the rest of you? Do they even have names? Are they just mindless drones? What’s - ”

Max sprays him with lukewarm water to get him to shut up. “Do you actually want answers to your questions, or do you just like to hear yourself talk?”

“Both?” he says, pushing his wet curls out of his face. 

“Most of the enchanted objects in the castle are not sentient. They don’t seem to have their own sense of selves. I tried, when all this began, to engage them in conversation, but they really do seem to be merely tools.”

Just then, a pot boils over, and so Max leaves him to muse on her words.  _ When all this began _ , she said. But when  _ did _ all this begin? And why? Everyone is infuriatingly tight-lipped about how they came to be this way. He knows better than to try and pry further with Max, and so he decides instead to limp his way over to the counter and try to help make supper.

Silver’s sent back to his corner after he accidentally sets the carrots he was peeling on fire. Even he’s not sure how he did that.

“Come on, Max, I thought you liked a little heat!” Silver jokes, and she glares at him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you spend an awful lot of time with Anne in the drawing room. You don’t mind  _ her _ fires.”

Max looks unimpressed with his friendly teasing. “I’m a teapot, Silver. I need to stay by the fire to warm my tea.”

“Not your heart?” he asks, batting his eyes as obnoxiously as he can.

“Get out of my kitchen,” Max says, rolling her eyes, and Silver leaves without complaint. Max should take his pestering as a compliment, really: he only intentionally needles the people he likes.

He goes to the drawing room, mostly because his stump is still throbbing and it’s not too far. Also, Billy will probably be there, and he does so enjoy irritating Billy.

When Silver reaches the room, Muldoon and Billy are already there, arguing about something.

“There he is now! Oi, Silver!” Muldoon waves him over, and when Silver is finally settled in his chair, he pins him with an eager stare. “Tell Billy that story you told me last night. The one about the Duke’s prized heirloom?”

Silver’s just gotten to the part where his sixteen year old self had stolen the uniform off a drunken guard, sneaking the Duke’s rare broach out of the grounds past an unsuspecting touring group, when Billy interrupts.

“I’m sorry, there’s just no way someone wouldn’t have noticed a guard about a foot shorter than he was meant to be sneaking around like that.”

“Oh, I’m sure people noticed. But you’d be amazed what people are willing to overlook when it doesn’t affect them directly.”

“So the men who were chasing you that day in the rain aren’t the only ones who have a bone to pick with you,” comes a voice from the doorway, and Silver turns to see Flint in the doorway.

“Not even remotely, no,” Silver confirms. 

“What does that make you, then? A petty thief? A career criminal?”

Now would probably be a good time to admit that the story about the Duke and his magnificent broach isn’t  _ actually _ his own, but Silver is nothing if not stubborn. 

“So what if it does?”

“Well, if we had known your true colors, perhaps Gates wouldn’t have been so eager to offer you a place to stay. Perhaps he would have permitted me to leave you to your fate with those men.”

“Well, to be fair, I didn’t actually steal anything from Parrish and his men,” Silver points out. “If it’s the thievery you have such a problem with.”

“What did you do, then?” Billy asks, curious. Silver has found that underneath that surly demeanor, Billy’s a bit of a gossip.

“Well, I was eager to get away from this bloody country, so I’d signed on to the first ship that would have me. I’d joined as a rigger, and all I knew was that Parrish was sailing far, far from here. But when I got there, I learned that they were going to the New World not to trade tobacco, as I’d assumed, but rather to kidnap people and force them into slavery.”

He pauses, letting that hang in the air for a moment. 

“Now, when it comes to having the moral high ground, I don’t have a leg to stand on, but there are some things that even I cannot abide. So, I found the gunpowder stores, and rigged a fuse.”

“You blew up the ship?” Muldoon asks, bewildered.

“Well, you can’t kidnap people if you’ve got no way to get to them, can you?”

Flint doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that. After a moment of glaring at Silver, he leaves as suddenly as he appeared. 

Silver all buts forgets the incident until he’s climbing into bed that evening, when Madi brings it  up. 

“Flint told me what you did.”

“What, about the whole pretending-to-be-a-guard thing? I’m sure I looked even more ridiculous than what you’re imagining.”

“No. The slaver’s ship.”

Silver rolls onto his good side so he can face her better. “It’s funny, in a way. That might be the only ethically sound thing I’ve ever done, and it involved arson.”

Madi doesn’t laugh at his joke. “You are more than what you seem, John Silver.”

“And what do I seem to you?”

“A selfish, charming, cowardly snake.”

He chuckles. “No, I think you’ve got me dead on there. There isn’t much more to me than that, Madi. No hidden depths here.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Silver wakes up cold. 

No, not cold -  _ freezing _ . He’s wrapped under that same pile of blankets he was in awe of when he first arrived, and still he cannot get warm.

It’s a sharp departure from the night before, when in the middle of the night he’d kicked off all his coverings and pulled off the nightshirt he’d been wearing, convinced he would die of heat stroke at any moment. He’s chilled to the bone, and yet he still feels sticky from where his back and chest had been drenched in sweat. 

It takes several tries for him to get upright, cocooned as he is in his blankets. He gets dressed perhaps faster than he ever has before, eager to pull on the clothes he’d laid out the night before and then wrap himself back under a quilt or ten. He grabs his peg, but pauses when he starts to draw it near his stump: even without touching it, he can feel the burning heat radiating from what’s left of his leg. This, he knows, doesn’t bode well at all, but he’s frankly too exhausted to think on it too much, and he can’t bear to unwrap his bindings and see the damage for himself.

Putting the peg on is more agonizing than it has ever been, even when he’d first started using it. He can’t help the shout he lets out, and after a few moments his teeth and jaw have started to ache from gritting them as he tries to breathe through the pain. His eyes are still clenched shut, involuntary tears streaming from the corners, when Madi speaks.

“You are unwell. You have to - ”

He shakes his head, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s just a fever from the wound.” 

“John,” Madi implores, hopping closer to him on the bed. “There’s medicine here, if you would just - ”

“It’ll pass,” Silver insists, and, despite the way every bone in his body protests, he starts to rise, breathing heavily and dripping in sweat. He has to get out of here, away from Madi’s well-intentioned chastisement. He grabs the topmost blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders like a cape as he exits the room, ignoring Madi’s calls.

He’ll be fine. He’ll get through this.

It feels as though he gets lost within moments. It’s strange; he thought he’d grown more familiar with the layout, but he finds himself dizzily stumbling through the hallways like some sort of drunk.  

He finally reaches a dead end, pushing open a door into a room he’s never seen before. It’s dark and gloomy, with a huge bed along the right wall and overturned and destroyed furniture scattered about. The doors to the balcony are closed, but Silver can tell that it’s begun to storm, rain pattering against the glass panes. If the room weren’t spinning, he’d take more time to investigate and nose around, but right now all he can do is try to keep his legs from buckling. 

He notices, in the corner, a harpsichord, lovely and entirely out of place in this somber room. He moves closer, sitting on the bench slowly. His entire body is shaking, both from the strain of walking on the damn peg and the chill of the fever. He wraps his cape nee blanket tighter around himself, simply staring at the fine and delicate paintwork on the harpsichord. He loses track of time, there on that bench; he could have been here for five minutes or five hours. There’s something about being sick that makes time feel fuzzy, almost unreal. 

Absentmindedly, he plucks out a tune he learned as a lad, some shanty about going out to sea and leaving a lass behind. 

“It’s rather odd to have someone  _ actually _ play me,” the harpsichord speaks in a soft, melodic voice, and Silver damn near falls off the bench. 

“Is there nothing in this fucking castle that doesn’t talk?” he demands, standing far too quickly. His vision goes gray for a brief moment, and he has to rest his hands against the instrument to stay upright. 

“My goodness, Mr. Silver, are you quite all right? You’re white as a sheet.”

“How do you know my name?” he asks, though his words have begun to stream together in a most distressing manner. 

“James has told me all about our new guest, of course,” the harpsichord replies, though she seems more concerned over his inability to stand than interested in his questions.

“Who the fuck is James?” he slurs, but before she can respond the door to the room slams open with a bang, making him jump.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Flint roars, advancing on Silver menacingly. He’s more frightening than he’s been to Silver in days, probably because at the moment there seem to be three of him to contend with.

“I - ”

“Get out!” Flint yells, spittle flying as he bares his fangs dangerously close to Silver’s face. 

Silver doesn’t need to be told twice, terrified as he is, and he staggers out of the room as fast as he can. His leg is burning, and the walls seem to be closing in as he moves, but he’s too gripped with adrenaline and anxiety to slow down. It’s only when he reaches the front door, throwing it open and tripping out into the deluge, that his heart rate begins to slow and the world begins to spin anew. 

He turns to face the house, already drenched to the skin and freezing, and feels his good leg give out from under him. He hits the ground hard, slamming his head and making his ears ring. The last thing he sees before the world goes black is Max hopping toward him, her porcelain face splattered with mud.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know what you're thinking. muldoon? a hammer? too soon, hayley!!!!  
> you're right, and i'm sorry.


	3. in which silver comes to know a beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last segment of this section isn't beta'd but yolo you know. thank you so much to everyone for the lovely comments you've been leaving! they mean a lot to me.

Consciousness, when it comes, is a slow thing. It’s as though his limbs are made of lead, and it takes more than a few moments to clear the blurriness of his vision. He feels as if he’s just resurfaced from a long dive in the ocean, and hasn’t quite found his land-legs yet.

He’s not outside any longer, thank fuck, but he’s not in his room, either. But there’s a burning glow in his peripheral vision, and when he turns his head he sees Jack, all three candles lit, standing just next to Anne, whose flames are low and smouldering. They’re watching him, almost hesitant. He still doesn’t understand how a fireplace can look grumpy, let alone hesitant, but he’s too exhausted to really contemplate the intricacies of anthropomorphization.

He must be laid out on the settee in the drawing room, then. Probably for the best; there’s no way he could have made it back up those stairs with his leg in such a state, and it’s not as if Max and her cohorts could have _carried_ him -

The thought of his leg halts his musings. He’s in pain, just as he always is, but it’s not excruciating, more of a dull throb, which would imply - he looks down at his leg to see the prosthetic has been removed.

He bolts upright, frantically looking for the peg (his vision is spinning only a little, so he counts that as a blessing). Finally he sees it, leaning against the wall some feet away, next to a concerned-looking Billy.

“What the hell do you think you’re _doing_?” Gates shouts, alarmed, waddling into the room at full speed.

“I have to get my peg,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Flint can’t see me like this, he _can’t know -_ ”

“We’re well past that, Mr. Silver, so if you’d please just lie back down - ”

Silver stops dead, staring at Gates in cold shock. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Gates hops up on the sofa next to Silver, pushing at his shoulders with his tiny not-quite hands as he speaks. “How d’you think we got you in here? He’s the only one who could lift you.”

Silver lets himself be guided back down, dumb with surprise. Flint knows. _Everyone_ knows. He isn’t quite sure how to process this.

Flint walks in then, his nose in some giant tome. He’s completely engrossed, Silver can tell, until Gates calls out to him. When Flint looks up and realizes that Silver is indeed awake, his thoughtful look disappears, replaced by an all too familiar scowl.

“You _fucking idiot,”_ he says, tossing the book on a nearby armchair and heading toward him. Silver shrinks back against the cushions, remembering with sudden clarity the last encounter he had with his host. Flint, ever sharp, notices this movement, and stops in his tracks, his anger morphing into something not unlike exasperation. “I’ve spent the past four days playing your bloody nursemaid. I’m not going to hurt you, you absolute moron.”

The mental image of the beast as his nurse only distracts him momentarily from what is clearly the most pressing part of Flint’s statement. “Four _days?”_

“Your fever only broke this morning,” comes a voice from the ground, but when Silver peers over the side of the sofa he can’t see anything. The voice continues, seemingly oblivious to Silver’s searching. “I sent Master Flint go out onto the grounds and collect the proper ingredients for the poultice on your infected wound - let me tell you, it’s difficult to perform medicine without arms. Be grateful I didn’t have him remove more of your leg: it was touch-and-go, for a while.”

“He can’t see you, Howell,” Flint grunts, bending down and offering his paw. A tiny needle hops onto his palm, small enough that Silver can’t make out any sort of face like the ones normally visible on Flint’s magical guests.

“Now, Mr. Silver,” Howell the needle says once Flint holds him at Silver’s eye level. “Would you mind explaining to me what on Earth you were doing walking around on such a new wound? While your stump was _clearly_ infected and irritated?”

Perhaps it’s for the best that Silver can’t see Howell’s face. He can only imagine the disapproval that would be writ all over the doctor’s expression. Though, when he glances at Flint, he finds the beast is doing enough glaring for the both of them.

“I didn’t want anyone to know my - my weakness. If Flint knew that I couldn’t escape so easily, that my threats were mostly bluffs, I’d have no leverage.”

“Idiot,” Flint repeats sullenly, a murmur of agreement coming from the rest of the castle’s occupants. Silver would feel rather insulted, but the sheer effort it took to sit up and then lie back down again has completely wiped him out.

“When I wake up again, I’m going to come up with a brilliant rebuttal to that,” he mumbles blearily.

Flint sighs, moving back to the armchair and picking up his book again. “You do that, Silver.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Flint’s still reading when Silver wakes, his nose pressed close to the pages. He lifts up onto his elbows, peering around for any sign of their companions. With the exception of Anne, still brightly ablaze, they’re alone.

“They’re preparing a late supper for us,” Flint says, not looking up from his book. “Max thought you might like something other than broth, now that you’ve managed to stay awake longer than a minute at a time.”

“I love that woman,” he says with a grin. Then he frowns, considering. “Teapot. Kettle? Whatever.”

Flint rolls his eyes, getting up and grabbing a throw pillow to prop behind Silver’s back. Now that he’s upright, he can get a good view of the book Flint’s still holding: _Meditations._

“I hadn’t pegged you for a philosopher,” he comments, and Flint leans back to look at him in surprise.

“You know Marcus Aurelius?”

Silver shrugs. “I know the name, though I’ll admit I’ve never read his work. Never had much access to books, growing up. The most I manage to read is when I can scrounge up a tossed out newspaper.”

“You know, we actually - ” Flint starts to say, but Max and what seems to be the entirety of the castle’s occupants return, all expressing their happiness at seeing Silver sitting up and fully coherent. It’s almost like having friends.

Flint returns to his armchair just across from Silver as they eat, letting him chat idly with Jack and Max and Madi. Eventually, though, once their plates are clear and Silver has leant back against his wall of pillows, Jack comments on how close he and Flint had been when they’d all entered.

“What were the two of you discussing, earlier? I must say, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you hold a conversation with the Master that didn’t involve glaring.”

“Literature,” Flint grunts, and Madi titters excitedly, turning to Silver with an eager expression.

“Do you enjoy reading, Mr. Silver?” He has a feeling that if he asked her the same question, the answer would be a resounding yes.

“I’ll admit, I’m more of a storyteller than a reader. Though perhaps I’ve just yet to find the right book.”

“Tell us a story, then, Mr. Silver!” Muldoon pipes up from the ground. And - well, Silver has never been one to turn down a rapt audience, even one consisting of hammers and coat racks.

“Once, on one of my many travels, I came across a little girl, who would never be seen without a red hood wrapped about her shoulders. It was a gift from her grandmother, you see…”

He speaks well into the night, regaling them with tale after tale, until only he and Flint remain, the rest having retired for the evening. Silver feels wide awake, having apparently spent the past four days sleeping, and Flint, after Silver’s first story, had turned back to his book, and has remained ensconced in it ever since.

“You didn’t like my stories, then?” Silver asks, and Flint lifts a brow, glancing up at him from the pages.

“You have a gift for speaking, I’ll give you that, but I’d much rather hear a story that’s _true_ , than listen to you pawn off old fairytales as your own.”

“I hardly think any of your companions _truly_ believed I knew a girl who’d been swallowed by a wolf, or a man with a blue beard. It’s more interesting to hear a story from firsthand experience, is it not?”

“Even if it’s a lie?”

“ _Especially_ if it’s a lie. The truth, in my experience, is hardly ever the kind of story people want to hear. At least not without a little embellishment.”

Flint closes his book with a snap, then leans forward until he can rest his monstrous paws on his knees. “I’d much rather hear a tale that’s _true_ than one you stole.”

Silver moves until he’s mirroring Flint’s pose. “Alright then, Flint. What would you like to hear?”

“How did you lose your leg?” Flint asks without hesitating, as if he’s been waiting for the opportunity.

Silver freezes. He should have known, really that someone would ask at some point. “I - it’s not a particularly pleasant story.”

“Do I strike you as the sort of person who needs to be coddled?”

Silver sighs, leaning back once again so he might be comfortable as he relives this particular trauma. He stares up at the painted, ornate ceiling, refusing to study Flint’s face as he speaks. “It started, as you might assume, with a wealthy lord.”

“Let me guess: he caught you trying to steal from him, and cut off your leg?”

Silver glares at Flint. “No, he didn’t. Are you going to listen, or not?”

Flint raises his hands, conceding, and Silver turns back to the ceiling, staring at what he thinks is a cherub’s ass.

“He was a real bastard, this lord. When I was approached by an acquaintance about the job, I fancied myself a true Robin Hood at the thought of stealing from such a man. Even you, Captain Judgment, would find it hard to feel sympathy for this particular ‘victim.’ The robbery itself went smoothly enough: my role had been to charm his unhappy housekeeper and learn his schedule, and once I had gained her trust it was easy work for my companions to break into his safe, and take his wife’s jewels, to steal the paintings from his walls. It was only a week later that one of the crew, Jenks, approached me.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to blink away the memories as he speaks, to remind himself that Jenks is dead, that he can no longer hurt Silver.

“He wanted to know where the rest of our companions had hidden their share of the cache: he knew that I’d gotten along well enough with them, that I’d gained their trust. I was the most likely to know where they’d all hidden their loot. And, to his credit, I _did_ know. He wasn’t so far off the mark. But - the problem, you see, was that this particular job had taken nearly two months to prep. I’d gotten to know the men my colleague had hired. There was Nash, barely seventeen, who’d only agreed to sabotage the lord’s carriage so that he might pay off his drunk of a father’s gambling debts. Randolph, who desperately needed the money to pay for the medicine his wife needed. And then Gordon, a widower with a failing business and a hungry five-year-old to feed. If it had been a simple smash-and-grab job, I never would have known what was driving those men. I wouldn’t have cared. It wouldn’t have unsettled me, to betray them. But it did. And, beyond that, I had no way to know that Jenks wouldn’t simply kill them once he got their share of the take.”

“I take it he didn’t take your refusal well?” Flint prompts, and when Silver glances over at him, he sees that the beast has barely moved, so engaged is he in the story.

“Not in the least. I think he would have killed me then and there, if he hadn’t had need of me. He started hacking at my leg, assuming the pain would loosen my tongue…”

If he closes his eyes, he can still hear the sickening crunch, hear Jenks’s cruel laughter, still smell the stale ale on his torturer’s breath.

“Silver?” Flint prompts quietly, and Silver startles, shivering slightly. He hadn’t realized he’d trailed off.

“Right. Sorry. There isn’t much more to it, really. Gordon came in, through a stroke of sheer dumb luck, and shot Jenks then and there. By the time he’d gotten me to a doctor, it was too late. So, here we are.”

Flint is silent for a time, mulling over what Silver’s told him. Eventually, he gets up, grabbing a quilt and draping it across Silver’s legs, adding to the small pile of blankets already there. “It would seem, Mr. Silver, that I have misjudged you.”

Silver feels his cheeks flush at the not-quite compliment, and he shrugs, suddenly uncomfortable. “Not really. One moment doesn’t negate a lifetime of selfishness and thievery. To be honest, if I had known what would become of my leg, I can’t say for certain that I wouldn’t have given them up.”

“Anyone who’d been through what you have would feel that way. It doesn’t make you a bad person, to wish you could have avoided losing your leg.”

Silver frowns, looking up at the beast curiously. “I’m sorry, are you - are you trying to _comfort_ me?”

“What? No. Of course not. Go to sleep,” Flint replies immediately, speaking far too quickly.

“You are! I’m touched, Flint, really,” Silver says teasingly. He wants to keep at it, but he can feel his eyes starting to droop already, as if his body subconsciously wants to follow Flint’s command.

“I’ve been told my bedside manner is somewhat lacking: I doubt I’d be very comforting, even if I tried.”

Silver shakes his head, responding even as he snuggles further under his blankets. “You know, if you weren’t so snarly all the time, you’d be almost cuddly. You’re already soft and fluffy.”

Flint lets out an indignant, protesting sort of noise, and Silver’s smiling even as he falls asleep.

 

 

*****

 

 

Things are different between Silver and Flint after that night.

To be sure, Flint is still a churlish, reticent grump of a beast, and Silver’s still an irritating pest, but there’s something else there now, something beyond just the reluctant host and his impish guest.

The first sign of this change comes the following day, after Howell tells Silver he must stay off his feet for at least another week. It had taken all of Silver’s admittedly limited self restraint not to start screaming in frustration. He hates, _hates_ , being tied down like this, and Flint must be able to read it in the stiff nod he gives Howell in response, in the grimace that crosses his face as soon as the doctor leaves; he holds a finger up, signaling for Silver to wait before he starts to complain.

Silver only has to wait a few moments before Flint returns, holding a massive book in his paw.

Silver takes it, running a hand along the front cover. “ _One Thousand and One Nights?_ ” he asks, reading the title aloud. He’s never heard of it.

“It’s a book about a storyteller who uses her tales to protect herself, to enthrall those who might wish her harm. I thought it seemed appropriate.”

“A book about storytelling for a storyteller?” he asks, smiling softly.

Silver looks up from the cover, surprised at the thought Flint had put into this little gesture. When he takes a good look, he realizes that Flint is _actually_ nervous about how Silver will react to the book, playing with a frayed piece of torn upholstery on the arm of his chair. Which is patently ridiculous - Silver has received about six gifts total in his life, and not one of them was as thoughtful and generous as this.

“I thought you might like it, and given how little Howell will let you do…”

Silver reaches over, covering Flint’s russet paw with his hand and squeezing gently. “Thank you, Flint. Truly.”

Flint stiffens for a moment, staring with surprise at where Silver is touching him (and isn’t that sad? When was the last time someone touched Flint, even laid their hand on his shoulder?). But when he looks back up at Silver’s face and sees his genuine pleasure and gratitude, he relaxes, shoulders drooping slightly. He smiles then, as best as a beast with such a muzzle can, and Silver is surprised at how much he likes the sight of it.

“I thought it would be long enough to keep you engaged for a while. It’s one of my favorites actually - the stories are ancient, but most people think they’re from Persia or somewhere thereabouts. I thought, if you enjoy it well enough, we might discuss whichever ones pique your interest.”

It’s an olive branch, Silver realizes as Flint speaks, earnest and eager. The beast’s earlier attempts at civility had been lacking, but now it seems that he’s found a way to relate to Silver: linking his love of books with Silver’s own love of storytelling.

Silver nods his agreement as his fingers tap against the cover, antsy and anxious to start reading.

Flint seems to notice, for that smile widens. “Shall I retrieve my own book, and leave you to it?”

Silver grins, and immediately opens to the first page. He finds himself sucked into the frame narrative easily; he’s rather taken with Scheherazade, admires her tenacity and her cleverness. The individual stories she tells her Sultan husband are delightful as well: he particularly enjoys the ones concerning the Queen of Serpents.

He doesn’t even notice how long he’s been reading until his eyes start to droop and he nearly nods off into the book itself. He hears a deep chuckle, before a furry paw appears in his field of vision and takes it from his hands, revealing to Silver the dimness of the room, the lateness of the hour. He lets out a protesting little whine, but it’s slightly undercut by the way he immediately slouches down against his pillows.

“I take it you like the book?”

“‘People need stories more than bread itself,’” Silver quotes one of his favorite passages, pausing briefly to yawn before finishing the line. “‘They tell us how to live, and why.’”

“Indeed they do,” Flint murmurs, and Silver, though his eyes are closed, feels his blanket being drawn more securely over his shoulders. “Sleep now, Mr. Silver. Scheherazade will still be there in the morning.”

“I sure as shit hope so - she’s been working her ass off to stay alive.”

The last thing he hears before he succumbs to sleep is Flint’s low, rumbling chuckle.

 

 

*****

 

 

The next morning, when he wakes, it’s to the sight of a steaming bath several feet away, and Madi’s smiling face hovering just next to his head.

“Good morning.”

He groans, burying his face into the pillow. It may not be that luxurious bed to which he’d grown accustomed last week, but it’s still a hell of a lot more comfortable than it would be to get up right now.

“None of that, now,” Madi chides, turning so that her bristles tug harshly on John’s tangled hair. He groans at the pain, reaching up to pull her out before she gets stuck there (he doesn’t have the best track record with hairbrushes - inanimate ones, at least). “Flint’s too polite to say anything, but you stink, Silver. His nose twitches every time he walks in the room. Plus, you’re all sweaty and greasy. It’s well past time for a bath, don’t you agree?”

The idea that Flint is too polite for _anything_ is quite frankly hilarious, but he concedes her point: he feels disgusting, and a bath would do him good.

He gets up slowly, stripping off his shirt carelessly and tossing it on the ground, before he gets started on his trousers. Then, sitting in only his breeches, he finds himself faced with a new obstacle. Before he can get up and start hopping - probably a bad idea, given that he hasn’t been properly upright in five days and would most likely tip over - Madi speaks again.

“There’s a crutch for you, just at your feet.”

He looks down, and sure enough, there’s a basic crutch there, made out of a fairly light-colored wood. When Silver stands with it, the crutch fits perfectly under his armpit, almost like it was meant for him. It’s relatively easy, making it those four feet to the tub, with such a well-made crutch. It’s as he sits on the edge, pulling off his breeches, that Flint comes in.

He takes one look at Silver, breeches halfway down his ass, and walks right back the way he came without a word.

Silver looks to Madi, frowning. “Awfully prudish, isn’t he?”

Madi’s too busy laughing to answer.

The bath is divine, and Silver takes his sweet time making use of the many lotions and shampoos made available to him. He’s been soaking for perhaps half an hour when he feels a tug on his wet hair, then another. He opens his eyes, sitting up until he can see  - yes, Madi balancing on the bath’s rim.

“What happened to not being anyone’s servant?”

“Your curls are lovely, John Silver, and I am a hairbrush, after all,” she replies, nonchalant. He thinks if Madi had arms she would shrug.

Silver has learned in the few weeks he’s been here that he would be hard pressed to deny Madi anything, and so he leans back and lets her comb his hair as best she can. It’s really for the best that she’s only tried this once, while his hair is wet and recently washed; it’s the only way anyone could ever get a brush through his thick curls.

Madi lets out a wistful sigh after several long, soothing minutes of gentle tugging on his hair, and Silver makes a questioning noise.

“I miss my hair,” she says simply, as though she hasn’t just opened the door to a whole new room filled with questions for Silver. “I had the most lovely dreadlocks, and I always enjoyed finding new ways to style and play with them.”

He sits up fully and turns to face her, paying no mind to the soapy water that splashes over the edges of the tub.

“So you _were_ human!” He points an accusing finger at her, glad to finally have confirmation of what he’s suspected all along. He realizes, belatedly, that the mention of her dreadlocks, combined with her accent, would imply that she is a black woman.

No wonder she’d taken such offense to Silver assuming she was Flint’s servant those weeks ago.

“I assumed you’d pieced that much together by now,” Madi replies, in that way that says she thinks he’s being an idiot. He’s grown awfully familiar with that tone as of late.

“Well, yes, but everyone’s so damn evasive. I can never get a straight answer out of any of you.”

Madi hums, returning to her task. “I cannot imagine how _frustrating_ it must be, to put up with someone so unwilling to speak the whole truth.”

Her voice is positively dripping with sarcasm. He snorts. “Fine. Point taken.”

Silver tries to remain still and let Madi finish brushing his hair, really he does, but he’s fairly brimming over with curiosity at this point. Eventually she must notice his fidgeting, for she lets out another sigh, this one more put-upon, before ceasing her ministrations.

“What is it, John?”

He whips around, eyes wide and inquisitive. “It’s a curse, isn’t it? Was it intended for all of you, or was Flint the primary target? Is that why he’s a beast while the rest of you are household objects? Who cast it? What prompted it? Do you know how to break it? Is Billy really that tall when he’s not a coat rack? Why were you affected by the spell, if you didn’t live here?”

Madi starts to chuckle, and he realizes he’s been babbling in his excitement.

“Many of those questions are not for me to answer. But I can tell you this: yes, Billy truly was that tall as a man; and I was merely unfortunate enough to be a guest here when the curse was cast.”

Silver pouts. “That’s all you’re going to give me?”

“I’m afraid it’s not my place, to tell the secrets of another. You’ll have to simply ask Flint yourself, if you want to know.”

“You’re deplorably diplomatic, Madi. It’s annoying, really. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say _you_ should be the master of this castle. You certainly act enough like a princess,” he jokes, and the smile Madi gives him at that doesn’t quite meet her carved eyes. She hops off the bath, and starts to leave. “Wait - why _were_ you visiting the castle? Madi, you’re not _actually_ royalty, are you? I haven’t been stripping off in full view of a _princess_ , have I? Madi? _Madi!”_

 

 

*****

 

 

Billy comes in shortly after Silver has put his trousers back on, while he’s making short laps around the room and getting used to his crutch. The bath has since left (on its own, and it’s odd that Silver wasn’t even surprised when it did), and so he’s been on his own for nearly an hour, just going in circles.

Madi’s given him a lot to think about.

“Flint said to check up on you,” is all Billy says as a greeting, and Silver can’t help his smile at that.

“Is there a particular reason you’re the one doing the checking, and not him?”

Billy shrugs - as much as a coat rack can shrug - and Silver just knows that’s all he’ll get from him on the subject. Not a particularly inquisitive fellow, is Billy. Or, more likely, he just didn’t care enough to ask Flint why he wasn’t the one seeing to Silver.

“He just said to make sure you weren’t working yourself too hard on that crutch,” Billy says, looking between Silver and his crutch pointedly. Silver raises his hands in surrender, moving back to his couch and settling himself back amongst his pillows with a relieved sigh. His arms are sore, his back is stiff, and his good leg is aching from the constant movement.

“So where did you all find this, anyway? Did you just happen to have another short cripple as a guest previously?”

Billy frowns, and scoots closer to get a better look at the crutch. “Huh. So that’s why Jack was complaining about ‘arboreal symmetry.’”

“...what?”

“This is silver birch,” Billy observes, knocking it with one of his pegs. “Flint must have cut it down while you were convalescing. Probably thought he was being clever, making a crutch for you from _silver_ birch and not one of our dozens of pines.”

Silver stares at Billy, bewildered, before taking the crutch back in hand. “Flint _made_ this?”

“Gates mentioned to me once that his father was a carpenter. I never really thought much of it until now.”

Silver can’t stop staring at the crutch, laying it over his knees and running his fingers along the smooth wood in awe. “Flint made this...for _me_?”

“Well, who else was he going to make it for?”

 

 

*****

 

 

“You haven’t finished,” Flint observes on the last evening of Silver’s bedrest, gesturing to the ribbon hanging from the spine near the end of the book. “I thought, given how eager you’ve been to discuss the stories, you’d have been done by now.”

Silver puts his hand along the leather cover, running his fingers along the grooves. It’s true, that he and Flint have had many a discussion over Scheherazade and her stories, bickering good-naturedly for the most part. But he’d found himself reluctant to reach the end, the further he got along.

“I’m just - not looking forward to the end.”

Flint frowns, though he looks more curious than annoyed (the usual cause for a Flint frown). “Whyever not?”

“I know how these things go,” Silver replies with a shrug. “Scheherazade, fearful that her husband will have her executed in the morning as he has with all his previous brides, tells him a story each night, stopping in the middle to keep him intrigued and herself alive - ”

“Well, yes. We’ve both agreed that she’s clever to do so. But I still don’t see why you wouldn’t want to know the end.”

“Because I know the end!” Silver says, perhaps a bit more upset than he should be. “It’s _One Thousand and One Nights_ , isn’t it? Her stories run out. Her cleverness can only save her for so long, and then…”

Flint’s frown turns to a look of understanding, and his gaze softens. Stupid perceptive beasts.

He moves to Silver’s settee, sitting next to him. “Silver, Scheherazade doesn’t die in the end.”

“What? But I thought - ”

Flint interrupts him again, placing a heavy paw on his shoulder. “The Sultan falls in love with her, and so he spares her life when her stories have finished.”

“But he doesn’t love _her_ , he loves her stories,” Silver protests.

“He loves her cleverness, yes, but he has almost three years to learn that she has a kind heart, and a good soul. She is more than just her tales, and he loves every piece of her.”

“I - I hadn’t thought there could be a happy ending. There never seems to be, in the stories that matter.”

Flint gives him a sad sort of smile, before he reaches over and takes the book in hand. He settles back against the sofa, and turns to the page Silver has marked.

“‘The Tale of Scheherazade, Concluded,’” he looks at Silver from the corner of his eye. “Is this alright?”

Silver nods eagerly, scooching closer so he might read over Flint’s shoulder.

Flint clears his throat and goes on. “‘When Scheherazade had made an end of the story of Ali, she rose to her feet, and, kissing the ground before him, said: “O King of the time and unique one of the age and the tide, I am thine handmaid and these thousand nights and a night have I entertained thee with stories of folk gone before and admonitory instances of the men of yore. May I then make bold to crave a boon of Thy Highness?'”

As Flint reads this final chapter, Silver feels his eyes grow heavier and heavier, until his cheek is resting on the beast’s huge shoulder. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes in the morning to find that Flint, too, had succumbed to his tiredness. However, instead of waking Silver, it seems that he’d put the book aside and pulled a spare blanket over the pair of them, and simply gone to sleep with the smaller man curled up against his side. If Silver weren’t so embarrassed to have essentially _cuddled_ Flint in his sleep, he’d find it rather sweet.

Will Flint ever cease to surprise him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just realized that almost all of these little sections involve silver falling asleep???????? that's just lazy transitioning on my part sorry lol.
> 
> the quote from 1,001 Nights/Arabian Nights is from the generic barnes and noble "classic edition". i literally just went to barnes and noble, turned to the last chapter, and took a picture of the first paragraph lmfao
> 
> next chapter: ♫ tale as old as tiiiime...♫ (though there will be no yellow ballgowns, tragically)


	4. in which a great many secrets are revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly i'm just so glad this chapter is finished i don't even care anymore ajdfasdklhsdjhsdjhdjksdh HERE YOU GO

“Jack, for the last time, I am _not_ wearing a cravat.”

“I could just tie it myself, you know.”

“No you couldn’t, you don’t have fingers,” Silver retorts, slightly exasperated as he tugs on the cuffs of his fine jacket.

He’s actually nervous for the evening ahead of him, and isn’t that just ridiculous? It’s just dinner with Flint.

A _fancy_ dinner, yes, but a dinner nonetheless.

It had been Max’s idea, this meal, both to celebrate the one-month mark of Silver’s stay in the castle and the approaching Yuletide.

Jack had of course immediately taken over Silver’s wardrobe, insisting that for such an occasion he needed more than mere day clothes. He’d disappeared yesterday afternoon into the bowels of the castle, and returned with a cobalt blue dinner jacket and a silk, pale blue shirt for Silver to wear on the evening in question. He’d also brought a white cravat, at which Silver had immediately balked.

“Well, at least button up some, don’t just leave that shirt hanging open like you always do. Honestly, if you had breasts you’d look like an absolute tart, the way you expose that chest of yours.”

“Well, maybe I _am_ an absolute tart.”

“Nothing wrong with that, Mr. Silver, but on an evening such as this one does want to look respectable,” Jack replies, jabbing a (thankfully unlit) candle into his chest until Silver concedes and does up a few buttons. “Now, go shave, and then we’ll deal with that hair.”

Silver goes to the vanity, grateful to find that the razor he intends to use is indeed inanimate, and isn’t going to fly up and try to shave his cheeks on its own.

Just as he finishes lathering his face, he hears the sound of Flint’s yelling (more roaring than yelling, in truth) and he frowns, giving Jack a puzzled - if foamy - look.

Jack shrugs. “I’d take gussying you up over dressing Flint any day. I certainly don’t envy the task Gates has ahead of him.”

Silver chuckles, imagining Gates trying to brush out Flint’s illustrious mane with his tiny, metal fingerless hands. He finishes shaving quickly, and soon enough he looks less like a mangy tramp and more like himself than he has in weeks.

When it comes to his hair, though, Jack seems to be at a loss. He first has Silver pull it back in a low ponytail, and immediately decides he doesn’t like it. Then he has Silver tie it up in a knot on the top of his head, and decides Silver looks like an idiot like that. Then he wants it in a high ponytail, but of course that too was vetoed.

Eventually it’s Madi who wins Jack over.

“Just pull it back on the top. Half-up, half down. And don’t use that leather strap, use the yellow ribbon over there.”

Silver follows her instructions and Jack seems satisfied with the look. Silver’s just glad to have Jack out of his hair. Literally.

“At least it keeps those curls out of your face,” Jack says with a  resigned sigh. He hops toward the door with an air of someone who has accomplished some great deed. “Supper starts at seven o’clock, don’t be late again.”

Once Jack is gone, he turns to Madi, scowling down at his ridiculously expensive-looking clothes.

“I really don’t see what the fuss is about. It’s not like Flint’s going to care what I’m wearing.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think he might enjoy seeing you like this, all dressed up just for him.”

He glances up at her, confused. “For him? I thought this was some Yule party you all were having.”

Madi just smiles. Silver thinks she rather enjoys being mysterious, when given the opportunity.

  


*****

  


He’s early walking into the ballroom, as he’s never been one to dawdle around. Madi had insisted he carry her down with him, jumping into his jacket’s pocket and letting him escort her down the stairs.

“It’s annoying, having to hop everywhere,” she’d said, to which Silver had responded that walking on the crutch isn’t so far off from hopping in itself.

He’s had two weeks to get used to the crutch, and he’s gotten fairly nimble on it, occasional back pain aside. When he’d asked for his peg back Max had given him such a look that he hadn’t dared bring it up again. Better to use the crutch than face the wrath of that teapot.

Silver has only a moment to look around in awe at the ballroom, transformed as it is from the dusty, dark space it had been only a few days ago, before Madi leaps from his pocket and heads toward the side of the room.

“Miranda!” She shouts joyously, speaking to -

Oh.

It’s the harpsichord from before.

He follows Madi, sparing one last glance to the table set up in the back, and the glass doors of the balcony overlooking the snowy grounds.

“Hello again, Mr. Silver,” the harpsichord - Miranda, John supposes - says, sounding genuinely pleased to see him.

“Hello,” he says hesitantly. “Flint isn’t going to run me off for speaking with you like last time, is he?”

Miranda laughs, a bright, twinkling thing. “If it’s any consolation, he does feel badly about that. He hadn’t realized you were so sick.”

At this, Silver feels his brows raise. “He’s never said.”

“Yes well, James has never been the best when it comes to apologies.”

“James?” She’d called him that before, Silver remembers suddenly. So much of his memories from that day feel blurry and distant, due to the fever.

“Surely you didn’t think his name was just ‘Flint,’ did you?” she says, sounding amused.

He understands why Madi was so pleased to see her; they seem to be halves of the same coin. A coin that enjoys mocking Silver.

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” he says honestly. Why _hadn’t_ he thought about it? He’s such a dolt, sometimes.

Miranda smiles - or at least, he thinks she does - and changes the subject, taking pity on him. “Come sit, Mr. Silver, and tell me about that song you played the last time we met. I’d never heard it before.”

And so they spend the next half hour or so chatting away, discussing what pieces Silver’s familiar with compared to Miranda. She’s well-versed in the classics, while Silver’s repertoire is limited to bar songs and sea shanties, but it’s pleasant conversation nonetheless.

Somehow, all this chatter leads to Silver playing the filthiest song he can think of as Madi and Miranda cackle.

 _“‘Children, children, did you hear the grunt? Come and see the crawfish that bit your mother’s cunt!’ By the wayside, ay diddle-dee…_.”

He trails off at the sound of a throat clearing behind him, just as he reaches the foulest line, and his two companions are absolutely beside themselves with laughter at whatever expression this newcomer wears. He turns to see Gates behind him, looking decidedly unimpressed.

“Oh, hello there, Mr. Gates. I - uh - didn’t hear you come in.”

“Clearly. Flint will be arriving in a few moments. I suggest you head over to the table,” he starts to leave, presumably to retrieve his wayward master, before turning around. “You should know, though, that traditionally it’s a crabfish.”

  


 

*****

 

 

Silver has little time to do more than twiddle his thumbs before Flint comes in, looking… well, looking rather nice, actually. He has on his Spanish-style leather coat, yes, but he’s traded his usual brown and black shirts for a white one - which, Silver’s noticed, no one has forced _him_ to button up.

Most notable is his fur, to which he actually seems to have paid some attention: it’s clearly been brushed through, shining healthily and catching the light from the chandeliers rather splendidly. It seems more orange, in this light, than its usual auburn.

Silver rises to meet him, as one would for their host on such a classy occasion as this, and Flint stops dead, seemingly lost in thought as he looks at him

“Good evening, Flint,” Silver offers, because _he_ at least is polite.

That seems to startle Flint out of his reverie. “And to you, Silver. You look well.”

Gates - who’s been standing off to the side with Billy, Jack, Miranda, Madi, and Idelle - lets out a groan at Flint’s words, much to Silver’s confusion. Flint whips around and glares at the clock, before turning back to Silver and taking a deep, calming breath.

“What I _mean_ to say is, you look... nice.”

Another groan, this time from Jack. Honestly, Silver would think they’d be proud of their normally irritable master for being so pleasant.

“Thank you, Flint. So do you. I like what you’ve done with your mane.”

“The blue - it suits you. Brings out your eyes,” Flint says, looking down at the floor almost as soon as he speaks.

Silver thanks him again, cheeks pinking at the compliment, before he frowns. “I’m sorry, have I done something wrong? Only you’ve never been so careful with your words before.”

Flint seems to startle at this, looking as though Silver has scolded him for stealing cookies from the pantries. “What? No, of course not.”

“Well then, maybe getting some food into you will lift this odd mood of yours. I’m sure Max will be bringing something out any minute now.”

He sits at his chair, just to the left of the head of the table, where Flint sits a moment later. It’s only after Max has brought out what is indeed a fine meal, a lovely roast, that Silver broaches a subject on which he’s most curious.

“I had the most interesting conversation earlier, _James_ ,” He says casually, smirking as Flint pauses in his bite.

“With Miranda, I take it?” He asks, but he doesn’t sound angry, as he did on the day Silver first met Miranda.

“Yes. She’s lovely, by the way. I’m glad I didn’t have to hike all the way to the west wing to see her this time,” he says lightly, glossing over the unpleasant end to that particular day. “I found myself quite surprised at the thought of James Flint, noble gentleman. For some reason, it had never occured to imagine you before - well, all of this.”

“McGraw.”

“Pardon?”

“James McGraw. That was my name. Before.” Flint says, and Silver can tell from the weight of his stare that he’s been shown a great deal of trust. Flint guards his secrets nearly as well as Silver does his own, and he finds himself incredibly grateful to have been deemed worthy of this confidence. “And I was never a gentleman.”

 _“Really?_ But - you live _here_. Surely - ”

Flint raises a finger, looking greatly amused by Silver’s consternation. “I never said this was my castle. You merely assumed.”

Well, that much is true.

“In my defense, half the people here call you ‘Master Flint.’ What else was I supposed to think?”

Flint just shrugs and turns back to his potatoes. Silver scowls at him, the misleading bastard, before doing the same.

It’s silent for a time, but not uncomfortably so, Silver thinks. After a few moments, though, someone from behind them sighs quite irritatedly, and Flint speaks up once more.

“I - uh - I like your hair like that,” he says, almost fumbling for his words, it seems. “It’s good to see your face unobstructed.”

“It’s hardly my fault my damned hair gets in my face so often - this castle is awfully drafty, I’ll have you know,” Silver replies, cheeks red. He’s never been particularly graceful when it comes to accepting compliments, perhaps because he’d grown used to giving them falsely to get what he wants. It warms him, knowing that Flint wouldn’t say something he didn’t mean. He isn’t a liar, not like Silver.

Flint chuckles. “Still, this is much better than watching you toss your hair about like some shaggy pony would its mane.”

Silver barks out a laugh, incredulous. “Pony, indeed! This coming from the person who, until this evening, looked more like a mangy, stray mutt than a not-gentleman who lives in a castle.”

Flint laughs outright this time, covering his mouth to avoid spraying Silver with chewed food.

So thoughtful, his beast, Silver thinks, and then he stops chewing mid-bite, staring down at his plate in shock because _what the fuck was he doing thinking of Flint as ‘his’?_

Flint doesn’t seem to notice his sudden crisis, continuing the conversation with familiar ease.

“I suppose it _is_ rather drafty, what with all the broken windows.”

Silver smirks, deciding to move past his odd proprietary moment. “And whose fault is that?”

A month ago, maybe even a week ago, Silver wouldn’t have felt comfortable teasing Flint so about his temper. He would have been too afraid.But now? His fear of Flint has almost completely faded.

Once one’s seen a beast’s poetry collection, the intimidation factor is all but lost.

Flint is silent for a tad too long, and when Silver looks over at him he looks almost sheepish. “Perhaps it might be time to fix things up. A bit.”

Silver smiles then, genuinely pleased. Surely it’s a good sign, Flint going out of his way to make his dark, gloomy fortress into something more livable for more than just his own sake.

“Just leave any serious interior decorating decisions to Max and Jack.”

All too soon (for Silver will never be satisfied with only _one_ portion of Max’s food), their plates and cutlery roll and hop away, and the pair of them are left sitting at a bare table.

Someone - Silver thinks Madi, maybe - clears their throat pointedly, and then Flint moves, standing in front of Silver with a hand outstretched and his lips curled.

“Might I have this dance?”

Silver giggles at this show of chivalry, already reaching for his crutch to -

Oh. His crutch.

His face falls, and the smile on Flint’s face goes with it.

“I - Flint, I can’t. I’m sorry. I would, but - you know I can’t.” He glares down at his stump of a leg, unreasonably disappointed that he can’t dance with Flint.

“Nonsense,” Flint says, and Silver snaps his head up, staring at him in bewilderment. “If you can make Anne Bonny laugh, then you can dance with me.”

“Flint, I can’t. If I haven’t noticed, I don’t have  - wait, when did I make Anne laugh?”

Flint doesn’t answer, instead taking Silver’s hand and pulling him up. Silver’s given a pointed, impatient look until he sighs in defeat and fits the crutch under his armpit. Flint leads him by the hand into the middle of the ballroom, and they stand there for what feels - probably due to Silver’s own discomfort and bitterness - like an age.

“See? I told you. I couldn’t dance with you even if I wanted to, and now you’ve just made an invalid walk across a room for no good reason.”

“Billy?” Flint calls, which...is not the response Silver’s expecting.

“I’m sorry, you’re going to dance with _Billy_ , now?”

The look Flint gives him at that is nothing short of indulgent. “You’re going to give him your crutch.”

“What? Why?”

Another look, still indulgent but also slightly annoyed. Silver braces himself more fully against Flint and hangs the crutch on one of Billy’s hooks. Billy leaves with a wink, leaving Silver with nothing but Flint to keep him upright.

“Alright, now you’ve trapped me here. I still don’t see what this has to do with - _hey!”_

He cuts himself off with a cry, Flint having grabbed him by the waist and lifted him. He’s dropped not on his ass, as he expects, but with his foot on the ground - or rather, Flint’s foot.

It’s as Flint arranges his arms properly - one hand at his huge shoulder and the other holding his paw - that Silver finally gets it. Flint will be the one dancing and Silver will simply be along for the ride.

“Hang on,” he says, relying on Flint to keep him from toppling over as he bends down and takes off his shoe, throwing it back toward the table. When he gets himself upright again, he explains. “Now you won’t have my boot digging into your bare foot like that. Just some toes.”

Flint raises a brow. “If you’re quite finished undressing…”

So they’re off, slowly and hesitantly at first, Flint getting used to essentially carrying Silver as he moves. Miranda starts to play a soft, lilting melody, smooth and delicate, and Silver finds himself laughing as they spin.

“I feel like a child,” he comments, startling a little when he _feels_ Flint’s answering chuckle, pressed against his chest.

“It was Miranda’s idea. She did the same with her father when she was a girl,” Flint answers. He looks terribly fond, and Silver can’t imagine what he did to deserve it. “I confess, I’ve never done anything like it.”

Silver’s memories of dances like this are hardly his own: a grubby teen stealing glances at a daughter and her father in the corner of a crowded tavern, just before nabbing a loaf of bread; a little boy peeking in through a window on a cold, snowy night, watching a boy tread on his mother’s toes as his father plays at the piano.

That teen, that boy, seem so far away now.

“I like it,” he says softly. Silver rests his head against Flint’s chest, trusting that he won’t be led astray.

Flint is quiet for a long while, just swaying in circles, holding Silver close.

“Me too.”

The music peters out, and Silver pulls back, grinning up at him. “Thank you. For - well, I guess for all of it, but especially this.”

It amazes Silver, how such a fierce creature can look so gentle, so _soft_ , at times like this. He can’t quite make out the expression on Flint’s face.

Flint gestures for Billy to bring back the crutch, and once it’s back in Silver’s possession, he starts to lead them out onto the balcony.

“There’s something I need to show you.”

  


 

*****

  


 

They’ve been sitting out on the balcony, watching the snowfall, for nearly half an hour.

Whatever it is Flint needs to say, it’s clearly important, so Silver, for once, doesn’t needle and whine over being forced to wait. Though he’s always been one to talk first and think later, Silver knows what it is to have words fail him.

Silver shivers; the balcony doors are open, yes, and the warmth from the fires inside are at their backs, but it’s still snowing, after all, and he’s only human.

This seems to break Flint’s introspection, as he hurries to remove his coat and drape it over Silver’s much narrower shoulders.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think: I hardly ever feel the cold anymore, what with all the fur. We should go inside, get you warm - ”

Silver cuts him off. “What did you want to tell me?”

Flint hesitates, just slightly, before he seems to steel himself, peeling back his coat from Silver’s frame just long enough to pull out - a hand mirror, of all things.

A deep breath, and then Flint speaks. But not to Silver.

“Show me Thomas.”

The mirror seems to shimmer, then glow, and when Flint passes it over to Silver he sees not his own reflection, but that of a stranger, surrounded by mist.

“Who is he?”

“He’s - well, I suppose he’s the reason for all this.”

“You mean he’s the one who cursed you all?” It’s strange - the man - Thomas, Flint had said - has such a kind face; Silver can’t imagine him cursing anyone. He seems rather harmless, speaking soundlessly to some unseen party.

“No, of course not,” Flint says in a rush, anxious to dissuade Silver of that notion. “He was. He and I were…” he sighs, running a heavy paw through his freshly trimmed fur. “It’s hard to tell where to start.”

Silver reaches over, placing a hand over Flint’s paw. “We have all night.”

Flint nods, looking back at the man in the mirror with a wistful expression.

And then he tells his story.

He tells Silver about a young lieutenant, sent as a liaison from the admiralty to a handsome Lord. He tells Silver about the beautiful, mischievous Lady, and how easy it had been to fall into bed with her, to fall in love with her. He tells Silver about the friendship between himself and the Lord, how it grew closer and closer until one night, after a disastrous meal with the Lord’s father, they couldn’t bear to be apart any longer.

“You loved him, just as much as you loved her.”

“Yes. No. It’s - I loved Miranda, in such a way I never knew I could love a woman. We’re not in love, not anymore, but with Thomas - What Thomas and I shared...we all knew it was something different.”

Silver, who has never loved (or indeed, _been_ loved) by even one person, let alone two, finds this all horribly romantic, though he knows this story doesn’t end well.

“What happened?”

Flint goes to continue, but then stops, giving Silver a queer look. “You don’t seem overly shocked at my relationship with Thomas.”

“Flint, your charming teapot housekeeper and your surly fireplace are most definitely in love, and the _least_ strange thing about the situation is that they’re both women. I’m hardly going to be scandalized by something so simple as _love_.”

He gets a slight smile for his efforts, but as Flint’s gaze slides back to Thomas in the mirror his expression turns grim.

“Thomas’s father wasn’t as understanding as you. One evening, I returned from town to find Alfred standing next to a weeping Miranda, with no Thomas in sight. He first served me letters dishonorably discharging me from the Navy for this ‘loathsome’ affair, but I couldn’t find it in myself to care, not when I didn’t know where Thomas was, if he was alright,” Flint sucks in a shuddering breath. “He’d sent Thomas to Bedlam, the mental institution. He said - he said: ‘If Thomas is any son of mine he’ll hang himself for the shame he’s brought upon me.’ And I stabbed him.”

He looks to Silver then, as if he’s expecting some horrified reaction, some judgment for his actions. He doesn’t find any.

“Not just once. It must have been seven or eight times. The way he looked at me - such fear, like I’d never seen in a man’s eyes. And then, as he lay dying, he laughed at me. He told me that even if I could retrieve Thomas, he could never love me. Not after what I’d done. His son, his kind, gentle, good son, would never love such a beast.”

“Oh, Flint,” Silver says, because there is nothing else he could even hope to say. Not in the face of such anguish.

“In my anger, I hadn’t noticed the woman standing in the shadows. She was an enchantress, you see, and horrified by my barbaric behavior. So she laid a curse on the whole of the castle, and I became the monster I’d unleashed,” Flint looks at him then, a hard look in his tear-filled eyes. “Do you know what makes me truly monstrous? Not the killing, no. It’s the fact that, despite all the suffering we’ve all been through - not just me, but the rest of them too - I’d do it again. I wouldn’t even hesitate.”

“I probably would have held him down for you,” Silver says, and Flint just blinks at him, taken aback. “What? Did you expect me to judge you for acting out of rage? For killing a man who took away the man you loved, and wished him ill? Because I don’t. You’re not the only killer here, Flint, and your cause was far more righteous than any I ever had.”

He looks back at the reflection Thomas.

“He doesn’t seem to be in pain, or particularly unhealthy, as I know the patients in Bedlam often are.”

“We think he must have escaped some years ago. He smiles more than I think he would otherwise, though he was always one to find the best in a situation,” Flint peers down at the mirror, and Silver can see it now - the love in his eyes, shrouded by pain but still there. “I’ve often seen him moving in such a way that might imply he was riding a horse, but - ”

“You can’t see where he is,” Silver says, watching the strange mist circle around Thomas.

Flint hums. “Yes, another curse. I can see him, gaze upon him, but I have no way to find him. And it’s not as if I could simply _leave_ , not like this. Perhaps it’s for the best, that he not know my true nature.”

“Flint, no. He loved you, you said it yourself.”

“His truest love, that’s what he called me,” Flint says. He lets out a bitter laugh. “Look where true love’s path has led.”

“You’re wrong. I’ll prove it. Let me help you. Let me help you break the spell, and then you’ll see. We’ll lift the curse, and you’ll go find Thomas, or Miranda will, or hell, _I_ will, and you can be together again. You can be happy.”

Flint stares at him, at where he’s still clutching his paw, as if he can’t quite believe it’s real. “You truly believe that.”

“Of course I do! Just tell me how to break the spell, and I’ll do whatever I can.”

It might be nice, he thinks, to be a part of a story like this. A real, true fairytale, where love really will conquer all. He’s _sure_ it will, if only Flint will let him in, will let him help.

But Flint just shakes his head “I would never burden you with something like that, Silver. Either the curse will be broken, or it won’t. And I won’t have you blaming yourself for any of it.”

He picks the mirror up, and starts to put it back, but he pauses. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think: is there anyone you’d want to see? In the mirror, that is. It’s not only Thomas it shows.”

Silver’s tempted, for a brief moment. He might finally know what his mother looks like, if he were to ask that magic mirror to show her to him. But the thought of asking for her, only to be met with grey mist,or his own reflection, to be met with a sure sign that she really _is_ gone; he’s better off not knowing.

“I think you’ll find that anyone I’d ever want to see is right here in this castle.”

 

 

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: D R A M A

**Author's Note:**

> my black sails tumblr is [slverjohn](https://slverjohn.tumblr.com)! come say hi!


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